


that could be enough

by friarlucas



Series: pour myself a cup of ambition [2]
Category: AMBITION (TV), Girl Meets World
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19463821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friarlucas/pseuds/friarlucas
Summary: She has a million things she wants to ask him, questions flurrying around in her brain like hail—if he had a good time, what he thought about her performance, if he’s replayed their kiss over in his brain as many times as she has in the last couple of hours. What the hell they’re going to be now, if they’re going pretend like nothing has changed or if they’re going to continue to be brave and explore what happens next.Before the world turned upside down, Riley and Lucas had the promise of something more.





	1. friday

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [AMBITION ( Season 1 )](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044916) by [friarlucas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/friarlucas/pseuds/friarlucas). 



> A fic for a fake show created as a loosely connected fic of an entirely different show... oh, my friends, we're full crackheads now!
> 
> Takes place between the evening of the Jacobs gala, and the end of the world come Monday morning.

Riley is almost one hundred percent certain she’s dreaming.

She doesn’t see how she couldn’t be. From the moment she stepped onto the gala stage to perform she entered a haze, and every second since then has passed in a way that doesn’t feel like it could exist in the reality she actually knows. All of those wonderful compliments from patrons of the arts on her performance, who in theory should know whether she has talent better than anybody else. The proud look on her principal’s face for representing AAA well, and the way her uncle embraced her and told her that she had never been more inspiring. Hard to believe, coming from the most inspiring person she knows.

Then, there’s Lucas.

Riley never had a doubt that he’d be fine at the gala. Part of the reason his initial rejection stung so much was because his reasoning made no sense to her—whatever “role” he doesn’t think he fits, she’s never seen him as lacking. And considering how seamlessly the evening went, she figures now she’s proved her point. He’ll never be able to use that excuse again, if he insists on continuing to dodge her invitations in the future.

Although, considering how they ended the night, she doesn’t see that happening.

She wishes Principal Hunter and her uncle weren’t there. She wishes that something had come up, something important and crucial and non-negotiable, that required the two of them to flutter off and leave her and Lucas to find their own way home. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy their company—after this evening, actually, she’s decided she wants to get to know Jack Hunter far better—but it’s like they’re in a completely different plane of reality. To Jack and Eric, the evening was a success and everything is exactly the same as it was when they left for the gala. They have no idea that a tsunami has run through her world order and turned it totally upside down, and she hasn’t even had the chance to explore the wreckage.

She doesn’t see how they could be so calm and converse so casually in the front seat without any awareness of the tension taking up most of the back seat. It feels so thick to her that she’s sure she’s going to choke on it.

He won’t even look at her. She gets it, in some ways. When he cleans up, Lucas James Friar cleans up good, and considering they’ve already broken the barrier once she doesn’t trust herself to look at him in his current state. Not with her uncle right there in the seat diagonal from her talking about some jerkish administrator from Haverford, and her head faculty nodding along and trying to talk him down.

She understands it from that angle, but part of her can’t help but worry that the reason he’s not looking at her is because he doesn’t want to. They didn’t get much of a chance to talk after their dance before Eric and Jack swooped in to find them and the gala came to an end, so she has no idea how he felt about it. Lucas has always been tough to read, but never before has the struggle of not knowing exactly what he’s thinking killed her so pointedly.

It’s torture not knowing if the reason he’s keeping his gaze trained in the opposite direction of her is because he’s disgusted by what they did in the center of the ballroom and never wants to look at her again, or because it was exactly what he wanted and like her, he doesn’t trust himself not to go for another one.

Still, this frozen state is murder. She can’t stand the tension, and the fact of the matter is she wants to break it. She wants to crush every negative aspect of that pull between them so that only the good feelings remain—the curiosity, the affection, that strange sense of excitement that makes her heart beat faster than usual.

Uncertainty has no place in her relationship with him, she’s had enough of that. But to pursue that she knows she’ll have to make the jump towards clarity, and that requires her to be brave enough to take that leap.

Stealing a glance at him, she remembers how much effort he’s already put into this. He may look lovely with his hair brushed up and the button down and suit jacket, but she also knows how unfamiliar it is for him. The way he’s drumming his fingers restlessly against his knee accents the point.

If he can step out of his comfort zone for an entire evening for her, then she decides she can return the favor. And if it’s exactly what he doesn’t want and he pulls away, then at least she’ll get peace of mind. At least she’ll know.

Tentatively, Riley reaches across the middle of the seat and finds his wrist, lightly brushing her fingers against his skin. He stops moving immediately, joining her in the stagnant state she feels like she’s been in since they stepped into the car. Based on that reaction alone she debates pulling back and leaving it be, but she wills herself to be bold and follows through, shifting her hand so that it’s resting on top of his.

It’s not perfect. It’s not as deliberate or comfortable as it could be, but it’s a start.

She averts her gaze just as she catches him cast a glance at their hands, grateful for the chance to look away. If he is going to pull away, she wants to be able to pretend it never happened. She doesn’t want to see the disdainful expression on his face. She can imagine it easily enough considering how often she’s seen it directed it at others—she doesn’t want to envision it directed at her.

There’s uncertainty for a minute or so before Lucas finally responds, sliding his hand out from underneath hers. Riley figures that’s that until he reconnects them a second later, simply flipping his hand over to link their fingers together.

The moment of rejection she’s anticipating doesn’t come. She feels his hand close around hers, and in an instant the entire spread of New York City around them suddenly seems brighter. All the sudden, she can breathe again.

They still don’t look at one another. They don’t speak, but Riley doesn’t feel like they need to. She’s too focused on how his skin feels underneath her fingertips, how soft yet firm his grip is, the way he’s still tapping his thumb against her wrist. She wants to commit every inch of this touch to memory, so burned into her brain that she’ll be able to come back to it in the off-chance that it’s the only hold she ever gets.

She doesn’t need to look at him to see that his subtle smile mirrors her own. Somehow, she already knows.

When they arrive outside her uncle’s apartment, she almost refuses to exit the vehicle. She doesn’t want to reenter the real world and have everything that this dreamworld has built up in the last few hours crumble to dust as if it never even happened. She doesn’t want to let go of him.

But Eric is out of the passenger seat faster than lightning, and before she knows it he’s coming around to the curb to help her out. There’s no time to explain her hesitation, and there’s no good reason for her to refuse his help and hold this goodbye up any longer than she already has. No good reason that makes sense, that is.

As her uncle leans down to open her door and her breath catches in her throat, Riley feels Lucas squeeze her hand.

She lifts her head to meet his eyes, absorbing the calm expression on his face. A far cry from how anxious he seemed earlier, as if the twenty minutes they spent linked together gave him all the answers to the universe and there’s nothing to be stressed about anymore.

The car door clicks behind her, Eric pulling it open as he exchanges some words with Jack in the driver’s seat. Lucas’s gaze flits behind her before he locks eyes with her again, giving her a subtle nod. Giving her the reassurance she needs, although neither of them are quite sure what it’s for. The promise that when she lets go, that isn’t going to be the end.

For now, it’s enough.

In the next moment Riley pulls her hand from his and allows Eric to help her to her feet, emerging onto the curb. He leans down towards the driver’s side to finish up his discussion with Jack and offer a thanks for playing chauffeur.

As she shuts her door and Jack begins to pull away from the curb, she catches one more glance of Lucas sitting in the back seat. He spots her watching him and meets her eyes, examining her for half a second before his lips quirk into a smirk.

Lucas isn’t known for smiling—Farkle once told her that any time he does he starts fearing for his life—but Riley can’t help but think that lopsided smirk is one of the most endearing things she’s ever seen. Especially considering that when it’s directed at her, she’s never known it to be anything but soft.

Then he’s gone, Riley and Eric left standing outside his apartment in the cool May night. Her uncle gives her a smile before leading the way back into the building, not carrying nearly as much reluctance to walk away as her.

Riley gets ready for bed while Eric sets up the couch for her. All things considered, she’s glad she opted to stay the night at her uncle’s rather than go home right away. It was mostly for convenience considering they didn’t know how long the event was going to run, but it also allows her to stay in the illusion of tranquility for a little bit longer. For the rest of the night, she can daydream and romanticize as much as she wants without the inevitable friction of her parents leaking its way into the picture.

She’s careful to hang her dress up against the back of the closet door before making her way back into the living room, Eric just finishing up getting things situated.

“Sorry about this,” he says apologetically, clasping his hands together. “Still getting things situated in the spare room and all that. But I can take the couch if you’d rather—,”

Riley can’t help but grin, shaking her head. “It’s totally fine. I’m more than happy on the couch. Thanks for letting me stay over at all.”

“Please,” Eric says with a scoff, as if it’s not even worth a second thought. “Any time, you know that. Especially with—,”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. They both know what goes without saying. Before the awkward silence can permeate the conversation and effectively infect the evening, Eric reboots his jolly smile and steps back to allow Riley to settle in her space for the night.

While she gets situated, Eric rummages around in the kitchen for a glass of water. As he’s heading back towards his room he pauses, leaning against the wall and eyeing her curiously. “Did you have a good time?”

Riley doesn’t know where to begin. The obvious answer is yes, absolute affirmation with zero hesitation. But she doesn’t know how to properly articulate how wonderful the whole ordeal was nor how much she wants to share with him.

The beautiful scenery and chance to perform and sheer aesthetic of it all is one thing. The slow dancing, phrases like _she’s the best we have to offer_ and _always good_ , sharing her first kiss with someone where it actually feels as though it means something, that she _matters_ , is a completely different realm.

“It was more than I ever expected,” she states diplomatically, trying to tone down the dreamy quality in her voice that seems to be dripping off of her.

For all her efforts, she gets the feeling that her uncle can see right through her. He always has, so perhaps her attempt to seem aloof was futile from the start. But he doesn’t push her, accepting this response with a nod and an amused smile as he starts to head down the hall. “I’m glad you decided to go.”

This, Riley can confirm without any hesitancy. She returns his beam. “Me too.”

Eric bids her goodnight, allowing her to take ownership of the living area and drift off when she pleases. She double checks that the doors are locked and flips off the light, leaving one of the small ones above the stove on in the kitchen so she’s not thrown into total darkness. But she’s still alight with excited energy, and even though she manages to get quite comfortable in her couch cocoon she knows she isn’t going to be drifting off any time soon.

Thankfully, her phone buzzing on the coffee table promises her a distraction. When she sees who the message is from, her heart skips a beat and she swipes the phone into her hands so fast she almost drops it.

**You left your fabric thing in the car**

****

Riley has to reread the message a couple of times to figure out what the hell he’s talking about. It isn’t until she’s thinking about what she could’ve possibly left behind that she remembers feeling so chilly standing outside, and how her dress didn’t look quite right on the hanger as she hung it up earlier.

_my shawl??_

**The thing you had around your shoulders**

****

_yeah, it’s called a shawl. shoot, I didn’t even realize I forgot to grab it_

**It’s okay I got it**

**I’ll give it to you on Monday**

****

Part of her wants to tell him to keep it. The thought of him having something of hers makes her stomach feel warm, and given the fact that he was thoughtful enough to take it with him rather than leave it in the car for Jack to find sort of makes her feel like he’s earned the right to have it. If getting to hold onto it is something he might want, in any case.

But then, she likes the implied guarantee that comes with him planning to return it to her. She likes the promise that they will see each other come Monday morning, and that there will be a piece of tangible evidence shared between them to prove that she didn’t make this whole weekend up.

_okay. thanks :)_

**No problem**

****

She doesn’t want the conversation to end. She was already dreading how she probably shouldn’t text him so quickly after saying goodbye, so for him to give her a clear opening feels like playing with fire. She has a million things she wants to ask him, questions flurrying around in her brain like hail—if he had a good time, what he thought about her performance, if he’s replayed their kiss over in his brain as many times as she has in the last couple of hours. What the hell they’re going to be now, if they’re going pretend like nothing has changed or if they’re going to continue to be brave and explore what happens next.

He saves her the trouble of saying anything else for the evening, following up on his own message about ten minutes later.

**Thanks for inviting me**

****

Riley doesn’t trust herself to say anything substantial despite how badly she wants to. First, she needs to sleep off the rose-colored tint to the evening and get her head back on right. Although when it comes to him, she wonders if she’s ever had her head screwed on correctly.

_of course. there wasn’t anybody else I would’ve rather had there_

Another few minutes of quiet. She worries that with her God-given gift for dozing off, she may actually fall asleep before she sees his response.

**There wasn’t anywhere else I would’ve rather been**

She’s grinning like an idiot. She’s grinning like an absolute moron in the dark in the middle of her uncle’s apartment, most definitely existing in some sort of dreamscape where things like this are allowed to happen. Where she’s allowed to be the center of attention for a night, where things are allowed to work out, where the most attractive guy in the world actually thinks she’s pretty damn lovely too.

If she is dreaming, then honest to God, Riley hopes she never wakes up.


	2. saturday

Lucas learned a long time ago not to get his hopes up.

If he believes in anything, it’s the virtue of low expectations. When he keeps his expectations low—subterranean, if he can manage it—then there’s virtually no chance of disappointment. He feels like he’s known that reality as far as his coherent memory stretches back, and it has rarely failed him since. It’s a survival tool, the greatest weapon he has against a world that all too often likes to throw curveballs and see how many new bruises it can give him from the impact.

No, Lucas James Friar is a homegrown realist, neglect only making that part of him stronger. And he’s never, ever been one for high hopes.

Yet here he is, meandering in his storage closet of a bedroom on Saturday afternoon and drowning in delusions.

At first, he blames it on the fatigue. He couldn’t sleep last night after the gala, too pumped up on adrenaline and anxiety and whatever else Riley infected him with over the course of an evening in Wonderland. There was too much nervous energy still fluttering in his stomach, and every time he tried to close his eyes to sleep certain moments just kept replaying in his head like a fucking cinema. He’d read about that sort of thing happening in books, in fiction, but he’d never experienced it in real time for himself. Although, he supposes, he’s never had much worth replaying.

Whatever they put in the air in that ballroom or poison they laced those pastries with, none of it has any effect compared to Riley Matthews. She’s lovely in a way that’s lethal—the most dangerous intoxicant he’s ever encountered.

Whatever it is she’s done to his brain, he doesn’t think it’s ever going to recover.

He spends his sleepless night listening to the playlist she crafted him in an attempt to get him to stop relying on Fall Out Boy to get through the day. As the sun rises out on the fire escape, he doesn’t bother to take out his headphones. He decides he’ll spend the whole day in solitary confinement, a willing prisoner to the memories of the night before.

Dylan and Asher text him around noon, asking if he’s around and wants to do something. He knows it’s rude, but he ignores the message entirely. It wouldn’t be the first time, and right now he wants to pretend he doesn’t exist outside of whoever he was yesterday.

He breaks this rule only for the sake of texting Isadora, seeing how her audition went and apologizing for not being able to make it. He’s sorry he let her down, but he doesn’t regret his decision. She doesn’t answer him anyway, so it’s a moot point.

Part of him has half a mind never to leave his room again. If he ceases to exist in the world beyond it, then maybe this weekend can continue forever. If he doesn’t show up to school on Monday, then nothing can happen to turn this around. If he never gives it the opportunity, then the universe can’t throw him any curveballs that will shatter this development into pieces.

Before he can even fully ruminate on the idea, he vetoes it. Some new part of his mind, heavily influenced by the side effects of Riley Matthews, convinces him that he can’t possibly do such a thing. Because if he doesn’t go to school on Monday, then he won’t get to see her. And if he doesn’t see her, then whatever potential thing there is brewing between them might not ever get off the ground.

If he doesn’t see her, then he won’t get the chance to repeat his brilliant stroke of luck. He’ll never get to try and make that moment his brain has put on loop a reality once again. This time he’d be prepared for it, be able to really try and _say_ something with it.

He figured words were the most effective tool of communication—which isn’t saying much, considering he’s always been shit with them—but after their exchange at the gala and her handhold in the car ride home, Lucas realizes he’s dead wrong. The form of communication doesn’t make much of a difference, so long as the message gets across.

If he received it correctly, then he got Riley’s message loud and clear. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. He doesn’t think he ever will—until he gets the chance to return it.

For now, he’s kind of driving himself crazy staring at the last words they exchanged. Rereading their last couple of texts over and over, wondering why she hasn’t responded and if he’s already somehow fucked things up. Given his track record for messing up, it certainly wouldn’t be a surprise.

But he tries to give her a little more credit. She’s probably just busy, as she lives a far more exciting and involved life than he does. He’s sure she’s not hiding out in her bedroom all day blocking out the rest of the world so she can live in the convoluted fairytale they built overnight like a hermit. And for what it’s worth, he hasn’t bothered to follow up either.

**What was the song you sang yesterday?**

He’s grateful when the decision to be assertive provides near immediate returns. Riley responds within minutes, at least giving him the relief of knowing she’s not ignoring him altogether now that the clock has struck midnight and he’s no longer magically prince charming.

_at the gala?_

_“that would be enough” from hamilton. why?_

Suddenly, engaging in conversation feels like a lot to ask of him. He leaves the message as unread so he won’t forget to respond later—although he highly doubts he could forget about her—and goes to hunt for the song.

He listens to the track basically on repeat, branding every single cadence into his brain. He crashes onto his piece of shit mattress and tries to remember the first time he heard it, grabbing her shoulder wrap off the floor by his backpack just for something to fiddle with. Even though the original performance is pretty good, he can’t help but think it doesn’t quite match Riley’s rendition.

Lucas spends the rest of the afternoon alternating between her track and the playlist, finally dozing off when his body physically fights back and he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. It’s less so restful sleep and more some kind of hazy state between consciousness, one he’s familiar with given that’s often how he spends nights in the booth. It’s hard to fully succumb to sleep when you might have to pack up and go at a moment’s notice.

Time is fuzzy and his inhibitions aren’t great, so he has no idea when he even sends the text to her.

**Your version was better**

When he actually rouses back to a more cognizant state, the sun has set. He truly whittled away a whole day locked up in his room and his own head, and he has every intention of blaming her. Not that he exactly had other grand plans anyway.

The cause of his stirring is apparent once he gets his senses back in order, the vibrating underneath his rib cage difficult to ignore. He rolls onto his side and retrieves his phone, wondering what could possibly be so important in all of their mundane existences that Dylan and Asher would elect to call him so late on a Saturday night. Especially considering that the stupid Instagram page has basically gone dormant, there’s not much excitement going on in their lives.

Lucas takes back the notion the second he sees who is lighting up the caller ID on his screen. His heartbeat picks up as he hovers over the answer button, debating whether or not it would be worse to pick up when he feels so unprepared or let it go to voicemail and give her the very wrong impression that he doesn’t want anything to do with her.

His hand moves before his brain can make a conscious decision.

“Hello?”

There’s a long pause. Lucas wonders if maybe he just missed her, about to lower the phone from his ear to check. Then she speaks, voice timid on the other end of the line.

“Hi,” Riley murmurs.

He literally doesn’t know what to say. Words have never been his friend, and now he’s expected to be able to use them in situations where it actually matters. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi,” she repeats, followed by a nervous giggle. She seems to regain some of her usual confidence when she speaks again, less markedly reserved than her initial greeting. “Were you sleeping? I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

He wonders if she can tell that just from his voice. He clears his throat, screwing his eyes shut and trying to get his mind to work properly as he rubs the sleep from them.

“No,” he lies. “No, I’ve, uh, been up for hours.”

“Well, it is nighttime. So you should have been up for hours, in theory.”

“Yeah.”

“But you could’ve been going to bed. Now. After all those hours of being awake.”

“As far as I’m aware, yeah, that’s how sleep works.”

His stomach clenches when she laughs, slightly muffled but just as endearing as in person. He’s grateful that for all intents and purposes, she hardly sounds different over the phone. Her voice is just a pitch higher than normal, but otherwise it’s as if she’s right there with him. He has to admit, it’s not the worst feeling in the world.

Which only leaves one glaring question.

“So, um,” he mutters, searching for the right way to phrase the query without sounding rude. He’s going for curious, not jackass. Although if he asked his classmates, he’s certain they’d say he’s only capable of the latter. “What’s up?”

She pauses. Her tone is bashful. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You’re the one who called me.”

Riley scoffs. “I know.”

“Okay. So why are you calling?”

She repeats the statement of uncertainty, although it comes out as a hummed series of inflections this time rather than the actual words. He’s impressed that he even understood it, but he’s more impressed by how damn cute it is.

After a pointed sigh, another statement of cluelessness. “I don’t know. I guess…”

“Yes?”

It feels crazy that he can practically imagine the look on her face. The way she’s chewing her lip, probably twisting a thread on her shirt. She’s probably got that half-smirk on, too. At least, he kind of hopes she does.

“I guess I just wanted to talk to you.”

She’s going to give him an ulcer. The way his stomach flips, or clenches, or feels like ice every time she looks at him and laughs and says something like that can’t be healthy, and he doesn’t think there’s a medication he can take to fix it. There’s no cure for her, and he has to decide if he wants to accept that terminal diagnosis.

It’s not a hard decision.

“Yeah?” he says, unable to hold back his smile as he rolls onto his back. Considering there’s no one around to see it, he supposes he doesn’t need to be subtle about it. “Hate to disappoint, but I’m not all that good at talking. I don’t have anything interesting to say.”

“That’s okay,” she assures him. Not expecting anything more or less of him than whatever he actually is, as if that alone is somehow enough.

If it’s fine with her, then he supposes he’ll give her what she wants. “Okay.”

He doesn’t know how long they stay on the phone. They don’t talk about anything substantial, despite the numerous topics he knows they _should_ discuss. He thinks they should talk about the kiss, partially to confirm that it even happened and that he didn’t make it up while under the severe influence of a whole lot of Riley. He could tell her that he may not have much experience—or pointedly, any—but he’s fairly certain it was the best kiss that has ever occurred in the history of humanity. He wants to know if she feels the same way, or if he totally messed it up and absolutely embarrassed himself. He needs to find out if he needs to try for a do-over, or if another kiss is even a possibility so that he can start preparing himself now. If she didn’t think the first one was all that great and he gets the opportunity, he’s going to kill himself making sure the next one is worth the risk.

He knows they should discuss what exactly is supposed to happen next. If they’re existing in this dreamlike state for the weekend and this weekend alone, only for things to go back to normal when the final school week of the year rolls around come Monday.

He doesn’t think he’s known “normal” since she showed up at Adams.

Still, he decides that conversation can wait. Even though the uncertainty is frustrating, not to mention scary, he wants the conversation to be one they have in person. He wants to be able to see her expressions and memorize the way her nose crinkles as they make the decision together, not simply imagine them like he is right now.

They don’t talk about any of that, but somehow they still manage to kill a couple of hours. He doesn’t think he’ll remember anything that she said when morning comes, but he won’t forget the soft tone of her voice. He won’t forget the way her voice grows thicker as she grows drowsier, or the way she giggles at him even though he’s not saying anything funny. He won’t forget the way she disrupts silences by humming, making up little tunes off the top of her head to fill the gaps in conversation. At some point, he stops speaking just to cue another riff out of her.

Lucas believes he could stay there and listen to her forever, but he doesn’t want to be the reason she loses sleep. Even with how she’s probably permanently ruined his.

“You should go to sleep.”

She hums indignantly. “You go to sleep.”

“I mean, I will. But that requires ending this conversation and you also going to sleep.”

Another long series of hums, as if she’s contemplating it. Lucas smiles, winding the end of her shawl between his fingers absentmindedly. He’s debating whether or not he’ll actually give it back. He’s grown sort of fond of it over the last forty-eight hours.

“Fine,” she agrees. From the way her words are slurring, she’s either quite drunk (which he doubts) or likely to drift off any second. “I can talk to you tomorrow?”

He finds it sort of silly that she’s asking for permission. As if he’d tell her no. As if he has the power to stop her either way. If he’s learned anything about her in the last year, it’s that Riley Matthews is a force to be reckoned with—when she wants something badly enough.

Still, he gives her the peace of mind. In some ways, he’s kind of hoping the question will turn into a promise. “Sure.”

“Sure,” she repeats distantly. There’s a long bout of silence, and he has to wonder if she’s fallen asleep without hanging up. Then she speaks again, barely above a whisper and full of affection.

“Goodnight, Lucas.”

Something inside of him melts. He doesn’t try to understand it. He gave up trying to understand everything involving her a long time ago.

His mouth is starting to ache from smiling. “Night, Riley.”

When they finally hang up, he doesn’t bother to get out of bed. He sees his hermit day through to the end, simply pulling the duvet over him and the shawl and his phone and disappearing further into wherever the hell she’s dragged him the moment he took her hand in the back of his principal’s car.

In the darkness, he gives up trying to ignore the cinema. He gives himself permission to get stuck on all of it—how she looked at him descending the stairs as if she wasn’t the most stunning person in the world, the way her hands tightened on him and pulled him closer and how that sheer notion is exhilarating and not terrifying, the fact that she never expected him to be practically perfect. How she didn’t think he didn’t fit the role of “Mr. Perfect” or whatever she truly deserves, because she’s never seen him as anything less.

This sort of thing is not allowed. He’s not supposed to be the recipient of kind words and declarations of fondness. It’s impossible to tell who is playing the greater trick—whether she’s stringing him along out of some sense of obligation or perhaps sympathy, or if he’s somehow bamboozled Riley into thinking he’s a fraction worthy of her attention. He doesn’t know where the catch is, when the other shoe is supposed to drop or the sky is supposed to come crashing down.

For now, he has the promise of tomorrow.

And maybe, somehow, that could be enough.


	3. sunday

Riley proves herself useless for the remainder of the weekend.

She spends most of it holed up in her room, avoiding the questions of her father despite how well-intentioned he comes across. He can act as calm and laid back as he wants, but she knows for a fact that the decision to let her attend the gala once he learned that troublemaker Lucas James Friar was her chosen plus one was challenging for him. She knows this, because Eric told her as much as they were getting ready. He found it more hilarious than anything else.

She doesn’t think her father would find it very hilarious that his daughter thoroughly enjoyed the evening for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the arts. She doesn’t think he wants to hear the truth that she’s fallen for their school menace, fallen hard, and doesn’t see herself shaking it off any time soon.

So Riley saves him the trouble, keeping all of the details of the evening inside her and close to her heart. Keeping them on constant loop so she can try to convince herself that it all actually happened.

Sunday is especially frustrating. After spending so much time talking the night before—although what they spoke about, she can’t even remember—it feels like asking too much to keep the conversation going. She doesn’t even know what to say. On the one hand there’s way too much to talk about between them, while on the other hand she doesn’t think there’s anything she could really say.

So she stares at the last message he sent instead, the declaration that she’s “better” starting to grow quite familiar.

It’s difficult to imagine what is supposed to happen tomorrow morning. She isn’t sure what she’s expecting—all things considered, she presumes it’ll be the same as it always is. She’ll head into the black box theater for morning class, congratulate whoever won the Kossal audition, and block out whatever obnoxious commentary there is on the whole ordeal. In fact, she should probably send a text to Isadora to ask her how it all went. Given how preoccupied she’s been the last couple of days, she totally forgot about the lengths she went to get her friend to take over her spot in the first place.

She crafts it quickly enough, using many exclamation points to emphasize how excited she is for her. Yet when she returns to the thread between her and Lucas, words escape her once again. She types a couple of messages but ultimately deletes them, nothing feeling right but the desire to have his attention downright dizzying.

Maybe Monday won’t be so simple. Maybe she’ll make the bold choice to go looking for Lucas, rather than waiting around for things to happen. He’s been particularly good at willing her not to be passive, and the longer she thinks about the possibilities she doesn’t think she could just sit around on this one.

She’ll find him in the booth, like usual. At first they won’t know what to say, but then they’ll figure it out because they always do. She’ll be brave enough to broach the topic of where the two of them stand, and by some miracle he’ll be brave enough to confirm her wishes. It’s all in a moment—one moment they’ll be Riley, and Lucas, as they are now, and in the next they’ll be Riley and Lucas. Something different, but equally good. Something better.

Something more.

All in all, she knows she made the right decision. A summer stuck with more intense performing arts students relearning the same things she already knows feels like nothing compared to a potential summer with him.

The radio silence lasts throughout the evening, Riley abandoning her phone entirely when she goes to join her father and brother for a late dinner. They get into discussing how the end of the school year is going to wrap up, Auggie complaining about how his school still has two weeks left whereas Riley will be done in just three days. Cory and Riley run through their last week of school checklist together, Auggie heading off to get ready for bed.

Her father examines her for a long moment, lightly nudging her arm across the kitchen table. “I’m proud of you.”

Riley lifts her gaze, tilting her head. “What?”

“I just wanted you to know. I know this year has been… it hasn’t been easy. For any of us, but I know for you as well.” Cory pauses, collecting himself. “You’ve been such a help. And you’ve accomplished so much.”

She’s already emotionally strung out due to the content of the weekend. If her father says any more, she knows she’ll start crying, and she’s never been one for doing that in front of others. Least of all her parents.

He reaches out and pats her wrist, giving her a proud beam. “Such a far cry from last year, isn’t it?”

Riley can’t even start. She tries not to remember how dark last year felt, how the walls felt like they were closing in. How no matter what she did, someone had their own convoluted reason to hate her and how easily things kept falling apart.

Now, she’s in a place where there’s never a dull moment, and her abilities are being appreciated. She has new friends, these far more interesting and far more true than any of the others. The people she loves are proud of her, and there’s someone out there who sincerely believes she’s the best the world has to offer.

Yeah, Riley Matthews certainly has come a long way from where she was a year ago. And this time, she doesn’t plan for the walls to come tumbling down.

She returns the smile, squeezing her father’s arm as she gets to her feet. “We’re on our way, that’s for sure.”

Cory bids her goodnight, Riley retreating to her room for the night. She’s somehow already exhausted and ready for bed at nine o’clock, considering just climbing into bed and turning out the light without another thought. But when she checks her phone and sees a new text message—and it is not from Zay or Isadora as she initially predicted—all of the fatigue zaps out of her like electricity.

**You kissed me**

****

Riley has to remind herself to breathe. She has no clue how to respond. Why he’s reminding her of this fact she has no idea, as if she hasn’t spent the last forty-eight hours obsessing over it.

Then, she realizes, maybe that’s exactly why he’s doing it. Because there’s a chance, as unbelievable as it seems, that it’s all he’s been able to think about, too.

Right now, she’s obsessing over how it’s been two minutes and she hasn’t figured out what to say back. Her hands are shaking as she frantically types back a message, hitting send before she has the opportunity to properly think it through.

_yep_

She can’t even bring herself to look at it, and when she does she wants to kick herself. If she thought his initial text was hard to answer, she can’t even fathom what she would say in reply to hers. So she gives it another ten minutes before forcing herself to follow up, trying to find a way to turn the tables back on him.

_well you kissed me_

His response time is impressive this time around.

**Yeah**

****

Somehow, Riley gets the feeling this isn’t going to be a very eloquent conversation. It’s perhaps one of those things they should discuss in person, along with the status of their shifting dynamic—or maybe it’s something that can’t be discussed at all. Something that is meant to remain unspoken, either because they’re meant to ignore it and pretend it never happened or because it’s simply too major to wrap her head around.

Regardless, her curiosity is killing her. So she ventures another prompt anyway, surprised at her ability to stay conscious with her heart pounding so hard.

_it was good_

This time, a less impressive turn around. Multiple minutes pass with nothing but static on the other end, and she finds herself wishing—not for the first time—that she could read his mind. There are many possible reasons it’s taking him longer to respond, and not all of them are negative. But sitting there twisting the loose thread on her shirt and staring at the screen as she runs through them isn’t doing her any good.

She distracts herself by getting ready for bed instead, brushing her teeth and flossing and taking her time to brush and braid her hair. Killing as much time as she can to give him the leeway to respond, but also hoping she might get him back a little bit by making him wait as well. It’s honestly the most elaborate nightly routine she thinks she’s ever done.

Her return finds her forty-five minutes late to his follow up, succeeding in paying him back but not feeling all that great about it. She’s far too earnest to play coy.

**Yeah**

****

An affirmation is more than she could’ve asked for. She has no idea what his prior experience is with kissing or relationships, but given all that she’s observed about him she has to make the assumption it’s not that broad—despite how his looks would lead one to believe otherwise. If it’s any consolation to him, she hopes he realizes that even with little practice, he far outmatched the other few brief kisses she had in middle school with boys who don’t matter now.

Considering how it still causes her palms to tingle when she thinks about it, she has to admit he’s probably a damn natural. She shudders to imagine what he’d be like with more practice under his belt. She doesn’t think she’d survive it.

Of course, that’s assuming the kisses would be hers to have. Even with how deeply she wants them to be, she’s not brash enough to make that claim without a sense of confirmation on his end.

Monday will hold more answers, she knows, but she needs some scrap of validation if she’s going to sleep tonight. She doesn’t know where the instinct comes from, but suddenly she finds herself typing a response off the top of her head with far less hesitancy than the rest of the conversation so far.

_so you were thinking about it_

Obviously, he was, but she sort of just wants to see him admit it. Unsurprisingly, however, he manages to find a way to do the opposite of what she’s anticipating.

**Maybe**

At first Riley feels a little miffed. She doesn’t see why he gets to come off as aloof and put together about this whole thing when she feels like she’s burning alive, but then she realizes he’s just playing the game back to her. She set him up for the chance to be coy, and he’s taking full advantage of it as is his right.

In some ways, she thinks this might just be what is known—to more confident and charismatic people—as _flirting_.

Despite how weirdly energized she feels, she also knows who she is and knows that she’s likely to fall asleep any minute past the midnight hour. If she’s going to say her piece and get some peace of mind from this conversation, then she better make it fast and she better make it count.

She ends up opting for the simplest approach, going straight for the question she’s dying to know.

_think you might do it again?_

He’s gone silent again. Perhaps she went a bridge too far—or perhaps he went to sleep. She doesn’t know what his sleeping habits are like, aside from the fact that every time she’s contacted him morning or night he usually answers within good time. She has to wonder if he ever sleeps. If not, then he doesn’t have a very good excuse for his lack of a response.

**Maybe**

She dozes off before she gets his reply, fantasizing about how tomorrow is going to unfold. Imagining that exchange between them in the technician’s booth, but adding a new kiss in there for good measure because she can. For what it’s worth, the possibility no longer seems all that farfetched.

In a few hours, she’ll get an answer either way.

Tomorrow, when the world changes forever.


End file.
